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Mouth to mouth, she breathes in salty seawater

from each sailor’s lips,

drinking in the unquenchable thirst and lust

that bounds her to her craggy prison.

And oh, how desperately she clings to the passion that, for one moment,

holds him to her breast,

clawing at her eye-line;

desiring to know the curves of her lips, her hips,

her body swaying through his heart-strings.

But she knows he will not stay; her song

is the one they fear the most, the song of nightmares

that each man wants to hear, but none want to know.

She yearns for the man who will swim through her stream,

strumming her and singing the cry that stole his heart.

Beckoning her flaws into the chasm of his being.

And oh, if only the sailors knew

that the dreadful gypsy-love song of the Sirens

was a plea—a howl—to the stars, hoping only to be unchained

from the rock that will never allow

a heart to dwell.

Lovers calling.

She sucks him sideways into a flyaway dream,

his unsuspecting heart catches beneath the wave

and crashes hard upon the shore.

Like so many before, she will tear it apart,

leaving only his cries to croon him to sleep.

But

the soft wave of his eye catches beyond the

coils of her body, beyond the façade of monochromatic lusts.

He sees the splatter of stars behind her eye-line, and

for one instant she is saved.

No longer is she chained.

And like the morning starlight, her freckles wash her

face aglow with light, set wantonly across her starry face—

She heaves with the heaviness of unrequited love, torn inexorably from her chest.

All she wants is a heart to give.

A heart that will never be hers.

But like the morning starlight, her radiance shall fade,

and she will find her way back into his nightmares;

for she knows not where the stars lead her, only that someday she will spill the ocean of desire

and once again return to that cragged rock to which she was bound.